He Doesn't Need Saving
by Toxic Lemons
Summary: The world is in ecstasy. The parades never end, the songs never finish, and the laughter never dies. He can’t stop himself from doubting the truth behind the joy. He’s too used to hating, and fearing for him to believe anything anymore.


He doesn't need saving. Not really, not anymore. He's fought so many battles, lost so many friends, that at the end of the day, being alive is enough. _More_ than enough than he deserves. The world is in ecstasy. The parades never end, the songs never finish, and the laughter never dies. But he watches it through his window, because it seems so hallow, so meaningless. He can't stop himself from doubting the truth behind the joy. He's too used to hating, and fearing for him to believe anything anymore.

He hates himself sometimes. He hates the bitter man he's become. He hates that he let them win, let them break his spirit. He used to smile through the pain, he used to laugh when he was too scared, too tired to cry. But now, he never smiles, and he never cries, and he doesn't know which one is worse.

Everything has changed, now. His mother died, Dean died, and the only person he has left is Lavender, and not even Lavender is the same. She goes through the motions of living, but he knows that beneath her façade of happiness and normality, she's dying. She is gone now, visiting friends, laughing the same, hollow laugh she used to laugh at his jokes during the war. He knows she is gone, because their flat seems a little more dead, a little more stagnant. He wonders if he loves her, but he isn't sure love exists anymore.

--

Sometimes he wakes up in the night, screaming. On those nights, Lavender climbs into bed with him, and holds him until he's fine, fine, just fine, you can go away now.

--

When he was younger, when he was eleven, idealistic, eager and happy, he dreamt of glory. He was a Gryffindor through and through, and above all else, he believed that if you were good enough, and loyal enough, and brave enough, anything was possible. When he was eleven, he had his hope. When he was twenty, he had his strength. Now, he isn't sure what he has.

--

Lavender has been gone now for days, and he wonders if he should worry. Theodore has been writing, but he can't bring himself to reply, to tell him that she's gone, and that he doesn't know where she is and that he doesn't really care. He hates himself on those days, and his only solace is in the burning taste of bourbon and the char of cigarettes, and the numbness that only abuse can bring. He never cries, not when he cuts himself on the glass, not when Theodore breaks down the door, not when they rush him to St. Mungos, not when they lock him up in the psych ward, not when they tell him he has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and not when they tell him Lavender is dead.

If he cries, he isn't awake to know.

--

They let him out for her funeral. A pleasant trip, a nice walk in the park, just a little while Mr. Finnigan, just so you can say goodbye, don't be doddling now, Mr. Finnigan, no Mr. Finnigan, you can't have your wand because we wouldn't want you to say those words, those magic words, the words that can finally make you free. We wouldn't want you to be happy, Mr. Finnigan, because if you are happy, then we were wrong, and if we were wrong, then how many lives have we taken, and how many have you taken. How many people did you kill, Mr. Finnigan, and why did you kill them?

He can't answer their questions. He can't tell them how many. Five? Ten? Fifteen? Fifty? He doesn't know. He was the best, in his day. He knew the words; he had the hate, and the cold, irony fury to cast the spell. But he doesn't know the numbers, because numbers are truth, and the truth is too terrible to bear

(He killed twenty-seven spies, seven-teen assassins and thirty-one Death Eaters.)

She is buried in April. Theodore is there, and so are the rest of her squad. Parvati would have been there, except that, sorry, she's been dead for seven years, oops, haha, too bad you couldn't make it! He finds this funny, for some reason, and for the first time in five years, he laughs.

He laughs and he laughs until he collapses, and then he cries. Nobody comforts him, nobody protects him. They let him cry, cry tears that he has been hiding for five years, and by the time he finishes crying, he feels raw and dead and the only person left is Theodore, who is crying, silently and angrily, and who is beautiful.

The ground is cold, and Seamus wonders if maybe he needs saving after all.


End file.
